How do you write around pain, move from it?
Did Jesus (son of Joseph, carpenter)
feel the rough wood of the cross, sawdust and
cedar, and remember how his father
had guided his hand as a child, gave the
son all he knew? Did he regret it all?
Felt home beneath his fingers, and wept, wept.
Leaving home will never scare me as you
did. Does it feel like the last key on a
piano? Is it a flourish–or a
cease? Leaving fingerprints on the wall; a
trail. Will some far-off archaeologist
weep, too, when she finds the path I take up-
stairs? Drop her tools and her body to the
floor? Sprawled on now-ancient steps; a longing.
And so, how do you write around the pain?
You would tell me that you do not need a
white crayon to draw an egg. Home, in my
bones, fingers crushing, yellow bloom; can't find
my way back to you. So I fry the egg.
See myself in the bubbling oil; but will
my fingers imprint on the pan handle?
After it all, my footsteps echo still.
Merlot, Rhiannon
